


breathe

by Nerlune



Series: Transformations [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Stiles, Hurt Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Papa Stilinski is a Good father, Season 2, The ending is hopeful and good so dont worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:07:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5792857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nerlune/pseuds/Nerlune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surprise motherfucker.<br/>It's the last thing Gerard Argent hears.<br/>He should know better than to fuck with werewolves.<br/>Or<br/>I refuse to believe that Gerard would only punch Stiles a few times. And, in my version, Stiles develops a little extra skill as a result of his pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Gerard will hurt Stiles in this fic. There's knives and bones. But, it's really not too graphic.

It was silent. No sound except a not quite there misplacement of air. 

It was difficult to breathe—every movement pulling at his cut lip and pushing painfully (pain slicking through his blood like molasses dripping down a spoon) past his ribs. Stiles shook his head to clear the cobwebs but his thoughts only became more frantic. Shame and fury curled violently in the pit of his stomach. It flew through his veins, pumping blood in anticipation. He had been passed out, but being awake didn’t help him much. The room was dark and something was wrong with his ears.

He threw his head up to shout, something, anything to make sure his ears weren’t broken. His ears throbbed, once twice, and he could hear again (sounds stabbed through his ears and crashed around in his head and he almost wished that he couldn’t hear again). An inarticulate, writhing growl escaped his throat and in the corner of his mind he thought about how Scott would have growled right with him. The fury in his veins pulsed more frequently with every pained whimper that he could now hear. Stiles knew that he had to help them—Erica and Boyd. They’d been missing and he finally knew why.

That bastard, taking teenage—

A gleam flashed— he screamed and sobbed. He felt sharp (he remembered stabbing himself with a knife when he was younger, clumsy to a fault, this felt the same but the burning brought to mind flames and ice) pains spread up his arms. 

“You’re a monster.” His words are halting… hoarse, yet strong. Determined. A growl exploded from the old man and his fist came down again, another gleam flashing from the large ring on his right hand. The pain radiated down his face and into his throat, stuck. The old mans’ fist slammed into his left eye (the sound of ice cracking is the only sound he could hear, and blackness creeps into his vision until he can’t see) and then he felt a foot crash into his chest, the chair sliding backwards and another crack echoed through his ears. 

“Do you see what running with a pack of wolves does? You deserve this, filth deserves death and pain.” A crack sounded from his arm and he screamed again. Stiles blinked through his one good eye (ice cracking echoes in his ears and he’s ignoring his stolen sight) and stared at the old man above him. Face twisted in ugliness—demonic evil empty yet full of hate and fear. Gerard ran the bloody blade across every inch of his body, again again again. Blood is dripping down his arms. Drip, drip, drip. He feels numb, the continuous pain giving no respite to his firing nerves. 

A tinkling ringtone interrupted his harsh breathing and Gerard stopped to eagerly pick up the phone. The conversation didn’t even warrant words from the man before he grinned (sickly, like the feeling of failing to hold vomit back). Stiles bared his teeth—he ran with wolves, freely ferociously and full of love— covered in blood and spewing in anger.

“Hospital room ready for you, old man?” 

Stiles blinked (fire lanced through his body, agony hot and blinding), mouth still curved in defiance. A knife is sticking out of his arm. He screams (its late, too late, he should have felt that sooner) and Gerard laughs at him, but he’s walking out now and Stiles feels hope rise in his chest. Boyd and Erica have been quiet, letting out whimpers only when he was gasping from the pain. The door closes and they’re alone.

“Are you okay?” He looked over to the werewolves held suspended with electrical wires. Both murmured some semblance of yes. And Stiles had to focus because he could feel the panicking heartbeat appear—breathing was hard but he needed to do it. He had to get over it. Now was not the time for his panic to attack him. Stiles fiercely ignored the fact that he couldn’t see out of his left eye and looked around.

His ankles and wrists were bound to the chair and there was the knife sticking out of his arm. He could feel the panic sluicing through his core, leaving him shaking and icy cold. But he heard the whimper of the werewolves and he shook his head, ignoring the resulting pain from the action and leaned forward. If he could just—the handle was in his mouth, ribs screaming (a deep corner of his mind told him that if Harry Potter could deal with Voldemort, he could do this) but he had a good grip. He wrenched back and let loose a deep and pained groan through his clenched teeth. He didn’t let go of the knife and after breathing deeply. Come on, Stiles, you can do it. Just go! He shot back down and let the knife slip into his hand, the blade cutting into his palms but he held on until his pain calmed and he could breath.

His vision was getting black around the edges but he refused to give up until they were all safe. He needed to help the werewolves and he wasn’t going to stop until the three of them made it to Derek. He twisted the knife around until he could start cutting at the ropes, and when his first hand was finally free he sobbed. Shamelessly sobbed out in hope and desperation. Then he was cutting at the rest of the ropes. 

Stiles slowly stood, vision greying and vertigo hitting him like a truck. He hissed then looked at the werewolves. Their wires were all hooked up to one machine which didn’t have any obvious button to shut off the electricity. Stiles walked (slowly, so slow like the drip of melting honey) over to the wolves and cut through the bindings capturing them. He looks around (and it’s so much harder when he only had vision in one eye, and oh god oh god), spotting a door that when he opened it led to the garage. There was an SUV that the Argents were famous for and he tried to open it but it was locked. 

Erica and Boyd were looking better, but they still seemed tired. He opened his mouth to question them when Boyd spoke up.

“Nobody is here.”

“I need a screwdriver and something to strip wires. Can you guys… I need to, need to find something for my cuts.” He moved to wave his arm at his body but it hurt too much and he grimaced. With that the three of them moved around the garage, looking for anything to help. He took the time to look at his body and decide what he needed to do. The many cuts on his body were deep but not enough to require stitches (he hoped, his vision was graying, but he had survived so far and he would not die before seeing his father again). There were, from what he could see, just 3 gashes that he should stop the bleeding of. His wrist is swollen and a violent purple but it’s too dark to see if his bone is doing any funky things. 

To his immense luck he found a first-aid kit in a cupboard and he opened it to find it fully stocked. He found bandages and wrapped his heavily bleeding cuts (it’s too much too much). He looked around but they’ve spent too much time here already and they need to leave (he can feel the walls of the room squeezing him and his breath is coming too fast but he has to get over it). He walks back to the SUV and the two werewolves are standing there with four screwdrivers and nothing else. There’s no way he’s asking them to strip the wires after they had just gotten free from the pain of electricity so he bites the inside of his cheek. If he needed to strip wires he’d just have to do it. 

“Nobody is here, right?” He got a nod from Boyd again and he smiled a bit (he’s clinging to the regression to the mean as his hope), “Can one of you do your werewolf thing and break the window open?” Erica handed him the screwdrivers and then punched through the glass on the car window. The alarm went off but Stiles already had the car panel open and was cutting the wire to shut it up. He used the flathead screwdriver and stuck it in the ignition to turn it. Surprisingly, the SUV hummed to life and Stiles let out a relieved grin. He looks to Erica and let a grin surface.

“What do you say we go help our pack and try to run over the evil bastard? He’d look so much better splattered underneath the car.” His words are bloodthirsty but he couldn’t see, so he felt it was deserved. Being angry was the only thing that kept his panic and fear at bay, so he clung to it with a desperate strength. 

“Hell fucking yes, Batman. We heard where that fucker is going. Rest, until we get there. I can drive.” With that Erica got into the front and Boyd helped him in the back seat, sitting next to him with a hand resting on his arm (he had to keep talking, he couldn’t handle the quiet). So he looked at Boyd and smiled at him.

“It’s good to see you, dude. Are you going to be ok?” Boyd glanced at him, eyes distant and fearful—but still strong and full of fire.

“I’m not weak.” 

“No-one is saying you are. I don’t think I’m going to be okay and I wasn’t there as long as you.” Stiles moved his probably broken wrist to Boyd’s hand and squeezed, “I know you think we’re not friends. But you’re pack. I get the silent thing, and it’s cool. But, like, I’m here to talk to.” He squeezed again, ignoring the pain and smiled at the taller man. Boyd was silent for a few moments, and just when he was going to start talking again, Boyd opened his mouth to speak. 

“Erica and I are going to run after this.” Stiles felt panic race through his body and he tensed up. For some reason he felt as though the two werewolves running would end in tragedy. He got a flash of dread and pain. His chest seized and (they would die, die, die. They need to stay, safe). He looked at Boyd (there was no color and everything was shades of gray) and saw a hole in the other teenagers’ chest. Stiles looked to the front at Erica and saw a dried out husk of a body. He panicked and shook his head violently, blinking rapidly and his vision turned back to normal, the vision of his left eye becoming black again. 

Boyd is staring at his face, shock awe fear fighting for a place in his eyes. 

“You can’t! I, dude. I can’t explain, but if you leave you will die.” He knew this for a certainty.

“Stiles, your eye, it turned fully white for a few seconds. It’s back now, but… what—“ Boyd was cut off by Stiles.”

“Don’t leave, please. I don’t know what happened. But, please wait. Don’t leave.” He was shaking his head and gripping Boyd’s hands in his own, “if you really want to, please just wait until I can help you. Please.” He was pleading, but he didn’t want to see the two werewolves dead—not again. 

“Okay, Batman. We won’t leave. I promise.” Boyd nodded at him, and Stiles could feel an easing in his chest. But his mind was lost contemplating what just happened. He’d have to go to Deaton and talk to him. His loss of vision caused this. The vet had also told him that he had a spark. Is that what this was?

“Stiles! Boyd and I need to go help, can you drive the car in and cause a distraction?” Her voice was loud but it helped him focus and he nodded. They pulled over and he started driving again while they got out, running and growling. He put his seat belt on and groaned.

“Put the injured human to create the distraction, perfect idea. Yes. Great.” He pressed on the gas and drove carefully (it hurt to move his wrist, it hurt to breathe. It was too much too much) until he was in the warehouse district then he followed the loud growls (and honestly, how did werewolves stay secret when they’re so damn loud?) He glared out the windshield and saw that the Jackson Kanima was standing in the perfect spot for him to crash into so he slammed on the gas and—

The impact had him slamming forward in the seat belt and he knew he’d have bruises from that too. And the glass exploded inwards, cutting his face but his eyes were already closed. He undid his seat belt and fell out of the SUV, although he made sure to grab the knife from the passenger seat. He then stood apart, only a witness to the events. 

Erica and Boyd were holding Isaac up and Derek was standing protectively in front of them facing off Gerard (and Stiles could feel the touches and stabs from the old man all over again). Allison stood with her bow pointed at—him. Why… He saw her eyes flick from the car then the knife he held in his hand then at his body (bandages covered his arms and he was sure they were blood soaked because he felt slow and so cold). Her eyes widened and she dropped her bow. It made a loud clacking noise that reverberated in the small warehouse. It went quiet and Gerard followed the direction of her eyes before landing on him. Surprise filled his expression, then hate. Scott didn’t even look at him (and wow that hurt, more than any of the injuries he got tonight). Derek frowned before focusing back on Gerard again. 

“Surprise, motherfucker.” It hurt to talk but Stiles had to say something. Then Derek ran forward, claws extended but Scott stepped in front of him, arms blocking the attack. Allison stood, frozen, in the corner of the warehouse but her father had an arm around her shoulders. And Lydia ran in. 

It was at this point that Stiles walked out. He gripped the knife and just left. His whole body hurt and he could barely think but he couldn’t be in that warehouse full of people who just didn’t care. Stiles lost track of time once he was outside. The events of the day numbing his every feeling and thought. Rage, bitterness, pain. They were all felt as though they were covered in a thick comforter. He had to stop because he knew this numbness wasn’t safe, wasn’t good. He stood, staring at the sky (he can’t see, can’t see) and traced the constellations his mother had so carefully taught him when he was younger. All was silent. 

His thoughts were frozen, so in his silence he heard a rasping breath and drag of fabric behind him. He turned and saw Gerard. Fury and pain and anger were uncovered and the ability to feel washed over his injuries like a healing creek.. The old man was on the edge of the road, right next to a ditch that led into a small river. So he walked over to the pitiful looking bastard and stared down. 

“Surprise motherfucker.” 

Without another thought he lashed his foot out and it rolled the old man down the ditch on the side of the road. He was face down, Stiles looked at him—mind rolling over all the pain he had caused to him and his pack. He let himself slide down the ditch and he then leaned on the back of Gerards’ head. As he put pressure he felt every injury, every cut bruise and ache. He didn’t realize he was crying, didn’t realize that the old man had stopped struggling, didn’t notice anything outside his own pain and shame. It sluiced up his body and he could feel it drench his face. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder and flinched around, only to see Isaac and the rest of the pack but Derek was supported by Boyd and Erica. Isaac helped him up and Stiles didn’t have it in him to say anything but between the three betas he was told they could drop him off close to his house. The time went fast and he found himself drifting until Isaac helped him out of the car. The blonde gave him a look before gently rubbing his cheek against Stiles. 

“Derek said you have permission to tell your father.”

Stiles only nodded before walking home—he was drifting again. Shame and pain and anger filled his body, and he felt the phantom vibrations of Gerards’ struggle when he held him under the water. He felt the throbbing pain from all of his wounds. He still couldn’t see out of his left eye and there was no room in his body for him to panic. The cotton dissipated and he was instead stuffed full with the overwhelming emotions of the night. 

Permission. He would have to tell his father. Not a conversation he was looking forward to. 

He looked up and saw his house. Squad car in the driveway, his jeep was probably still at the school. He walked up the stairs and opened the door (it’s never unlocked) and guilt suffused his body. His father must be so worried. When the door opened, John whipped his head around and stared. A broken sob escaped Stiles’ throat and his father was quick to rush to him. Arms carefully surrounding Stiles and choked sounds coming from John. 

“Daddy? I can’t see, I can’t see, my- I can’t- my eye!” The panic rushed through his body and he was gasping against his dads chest. John cried above him and shushed his son.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got you, son. I’ve got you.” With the loving caresses coming from his father, Stiles let himself go and only came to when he was being hefted into an ambulance. The lights and sirens silenced his mind and he was gone.

-

He woke to beeping. An ache pounded through his body; dull and sharp, a cacophony of pain. The ceiling was white, yellowed out in spots, but pebbled and rough to his eye. 

With that thought he remembered his eye and he let out a whimper. There was an eye patch (does that make him a pirate? He wondered how often he could get away with going ‘arrrrrrr!’) covering his left eye and when he raised an arm to touch it he hissed in pain. 

“Stiles? Stiles! Son, don’t move okay? Just, don’t move.” His fathers’ voice came from his left and he turned his head to look at him with his good eye. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes, his hair messy, and mismatched civilian clothes completed the image of a worried father. “I’m so happy, son. I’m so happy you’re awake.” The sheriff’s voice cut off and the man let out a quiet sob, his hand tightening on Stiles’ shoulder. He felt the warmth radiating from his fathers’ hand. And he fell apart. 

Time passed quickly while the tears were running down his face with his father comforting him. He knew he was whispering a litany of apologies but he couldn’t seem to stop. 

The nurses entered and Stiles fell back, asleep. 

\- 

“How long have I been in here?” 

“2 days. You had surgery for your eye. They could only stitch one of your cuts, but the other ones were too scabbed over.” His fathers voice sharpened, “You had been missing for 24 hours.”

“Has anyone visited me?” 

“Scott, two blond teenagers—Erica and Isaac?—the kid that works at the ice rink, and Derek Hale. Now, why is Derek Hale visiting you?”

“We’re friends, dad. Just friends.” His dad gave a skeptical look. 

“I need to go get a nurse, I’ll be right back. And, son? I’m glad you’re awake.”

The silence in the hospital room echoed painfully in his ears. He could feel it seeping into his bones and resonating in his stomach. The silence choked him and he could vaguely hear the beeping increase and increase and increase. Cotton filled his ears and he could hear frantic voices surrounding his bed. Then it’s black. 

-

There’s a curly head of light hair on the bed. Stiles blinked, he shook his head and blinked one more time before realizing who it is.

“Isaac?” The head popped up and he was hit with a beaming smile (honestly, that smile could spawn rainbows and puppies). Isaac leaned forward and rubbed his face on Stiles’ arm. 

“I need to go get the nurse. Your dad just went to the bathroom.” 

When Isaac left, Stiles could feel the panic creeping up on him. The silence too similar to the basement. But, before he could become too panicked, the door opened and his dad walked back in. His eyes still heavily bagged and face pale, but there was a lightness to his steps. His father smiled at him and took the seat on his right side. 

“I had surgery?”

“For your eye. You had a very severe blowout fracture, they had to reposition your bones.” John looks uncomfortable, his lip stiff and face hard. Stiles knows this look, it’s the ‘Sheriff-Has-Bad-News-To-Share’ look, so he tensed in preparation. “Since it was really severe, you’re going to have problems with your left eye. They said you might not… gain your sight back. But, there’s a lot, medically, that can be done, to try and fix it.”

Stiles watched his father fist his pants before reaching a hand out towards the older man, who took Stiles’ hand in his. They sat in silence (Stiles could hear his fathers’ deep breaths and the fabric shifting with every breath—it was the most relaxing thing he’s heard in the past few days). Then, the door opens and Isaac comes in with Melissa. 

“Stiles, you have stitches on your arm, but unfortunately we couldn’t stitch any of the other cuts on your body. You have 2 broken ribs, and your right wrist is broken. And then there’s the blowout fracture. We’ve already done surgery, and it went well. But, it was extremely severe so we aren’t too optimistic about your vision coming back.” With that, Melissa smiled and her official nurse voice changed to the one that always comforted him after nightmares. “I’m glad you’re awake, Stiles. But,” Here, her voice turned serious. “You need to tell your father.” She looked at John, “You should do it now, while I’m here. I’m on break.” And smiled again.

So Stiles reached for Isaac’s hand, with his broken wrist and felt the other boy lay a gentle hand on the cast. And then he explained (if anyone noticed his halting, gasping breaths between the telling of events, they didn’t say anything). His father held his hand for the entirety of it, intermitted with harsh squeezes during the stressful events. Then his father hid his face behind his hand and fell silent.

“Son, you are going to take defense classes, and up your firearm training. I know you too well to expect you to give all this up. I know the son I raised, and while I’m not happy with finding out this late… I’m proud of you for protecting this town from the stuff I couldn’t. However, I expect full cooperation and full disclosure from you. And, you will be taking all those classes once you’re healed. Do not argue with me.”

So Stiles didn’t (he knew it wouldn’t, be that easy, but he had his father now). So he closed his eyes and just breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> I plan to have a collection of one-shots that change canon into how I think they should have happened. It's all a build-up to a multi-chapter fic that I'm writing. And I totally disagree with how the whole Gerard kidnapping Stiles and the two werewolves thing happened in the show... so I'm fixing it!


End file.
